


All roads lead to

by tahariel



Series: Backseat 'verse [16]
Category: X-Men: First Class (2011) - Fandom
Genre: Alternate Universe - BDSM, Anal Sex, BDSM, Costume Parties & Masquerades, Costumes, Dom/sub, F/F, Leashes, M/M, Oral Sex, Roleplay
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-06-18
Updated: 2012-06-18
Packaged: 2017-11-08 01:48:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,138
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/437783
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tahariel/pseuds/tahariel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Erik owes Emma enough to turn up and look intimidating at her society parties once in a while, and Charles seems to appreciate it at least. The costumes are just an added bonus.</p>
            </blockquote>





	All roads lead to

**Author's Note:**

> The amazing **Jamesorangecat** did [a beautiful fan art](http://jamesorangecat.tumblr.com/post/26989843068/a-doodle-for-my-dear-taha-and-her-poor-wrists) of Roman!Charles-and-Erik for this fic, which is so cute, and the very talented **astasia** did [this gorgeous illustration](http://astasia.tumblr.com/post/24970812127) of what she would dress Charles in, given the chance. Please check them both out, they're so lovely!

Erik can't seem to keep his hands off him when Charles is here, or his mind off him when he’s not. It's a problem. He spends most of the day trying not to think of new ways to tie Charles up and use his body for his own pleasure, of new ways to please Charles. Even when he's at work he thinks about it in idle moments, about the way Charles cries when Erik's rough with him, about bending him over and making him spread his legs so Erik can cuff them to the bed and take him like that, helpless and squirming.

The thing is - the thing is, as loathe as he is to admit it, and though he would never say it to her, when Emma picked Charles for Erik, out of all of the high society snobbily-raised subs she could have chosen from, tall and short, combative and passive, broad or slender or viperish, when Emma picked Charles… if Erik weren’t the beneficiary he would have to be sarcastic and resentful of this further demonstration of Emma’s utter competence. As it is, he is bonded to Charles Xavier, who lifts his foot as directed when Erik taps his anklebone so that Erik can slide the long Roman-style sandal on and drag the leather up his calf, buckle it in place all the way up to his knee.

It’s getting dusky outside, the early evening sun drifting downwards and making the city light up slowly from inside, windows snapping into focus as the electric lights are turned on, illuminating their inhabitants. If anyone were to look in their window they’d see the pair of them in silhouette, Erik knelt at his sub’s feet putting his shoes on for him, running his hand up and down Charles’ calf to check the straps aren’t buckled too tightly.

“Now the other one,” Erik says when he’s done, and Charles shifts obediently, putting his right foot down and lifting his left in its turn, his hand resting on Erik’s shoulder for balance. He’s otherwise naked but for a pair of white briefs and the collar he never takes off, glinting silver around his throat. When Erik presses a kiss to Charles’ crotch, over the soft swell of his cock, Charles moans and wobbles just a little, fingers clenching on Erik’s shoulder, curling into the fabric of his t-shirt.

It’s tempting to stay down there, but Erik reluctantly straightens up from the floor and bends his head to kiss Charles’ mouth next, which opens immediately under his, lips soft and a little chapped. He keeps it brief; they don’t have the time for anything more, not if he doesn’t want Emma to kill him for being late. The toga is next, and he reaches for it where it’s laid out on the bed beside Erik’s own clothes, tapping two fingers against Charles’ shoulder to prompt him to lift his arms so Erik can pull the fine linen down over his head. Traditionally, of course, a toga is wrapped around the body, not sewn into shape - but then, traditionally slaves didn’t wear togas, and this is only a toga in the sense that it’s Romanesque.

Charles’ hair emerges from the neckline mussed and curling, and Erik tugs the fabric over and down Charles’ body with brisk efficiency, straightens it and gives it a critical look, trying to match it up to his memory of how the tailor had done it in the shop. The sleeves are short, only capping Charles’ shoulders, and the top is loose and billowing, soon to be pulled in at the waist. The skirt is the best part, however, cutting off high on Charles’ thighs and leaving his legs bare, save for the sandals. 

Charles turns slowly, arms out at his sides to give Erik a proper view. “Do I pass muster?”

Erik can’t keep the smile from colouring his voice. “You’ll do.” He picks up the long leather cord that came with the costume, and starts wrapping it around Charles’ middle, careful to angle it so there’s a criss-cross pattern around his sub’s hips. “Breathe in.” When he pulls it tight it cinches the fabric in close to Charles’ trim waist and drags the skirt up a couple of centimetres higher, Charles letting out a little gasp, looking down at himself as Erik ties the cord in an elaborate knot at the small of his back. “Erik, this is too short!”

“It looks good on you.” Erik looks his sub up and down, and doesn’t try to hide the spreading heat under his skin, because Charles looks owned, flushed with embarrassment, tousled and freckled from the summer, his strong thighs exposed under the silver-trimmed bottom edge. “Go fetch your leash, you’ll be wearing it tonight.”

He shrugs out of his own casual clothes while Charles obeys, leaving his t-shirt and sweatpants on the bed in a pile with Charles’ to go in the laundry later. First is the base tunic of his own costume - longer than Charles’, naturally, finishing just above his knees - and then the leather underarmour, and the steel breastplate over that, stylised and sculpted, carved with impressive abdominal muscles that he briefly considers adjusting to match his actual body for a moment before deciding against potentially losing the deposit for the sake of accuracy. The heavy leather is slit in pleats below the waist so that the red linen tunic shows through, parting around his legs, and there’s a plumed helmet and a sword to go with it, too, blunt, though he could easily fix that if he had to.

Charles is staring appreciatively when Erik turns around, and he steps forward after a moment to help Erik fasten the cape at his shoulders with clever fingers, shaking out the long drape of red fabric so that it sweeps cleanly all the way to the floor.

“Do I pass muster?” Erik asks, resting the helmet on his hip, and Charles smiles and says, “You’ll do,” before kneeling of his own accord to help Erik on with his own sandals, followed by the metal greaves which go on over the top of the leather strapping. Erik pulls the bracers on over his wrists himself, watches the way the toga draws almost too far up Charles’ legs when he kneels, flashing pale thigh and only just shy of showing everything else, too.

It’s hard to focus anywhere else, but he manages, somehow, calling the leash up from the floor where Charles has laid it down and letting it coil obediently around his hand. “Chin up.” 

His submissive tips his head back and just looks at Erik with those big blue eyes while he uses his power to reform Charles’ collar, fusing the clasp of the leash into it so that the metal flows into one solid, unbreakable whole. Charles’s fingers rise to slide over the join, and he shudders where he’s knelt at Erik’s feet, a warm, longing feeling flowing from him through to Erik, a tingle like blood flowing into a sleeping limb, pleasant and effervescent. “There,” Erik says, a little hitch in his voice, and uses the leash to pull Charles to his feet, tugging against the weight of his body, restrained. He thinks about splitting the cord in two, making wrist cuffs and tying Charles’ hands, too, but - no time, pretty as it would be. “There’s one last thing for you in the refrigerator.”

“In the _fridge?_ ” Charles’ eyebrows rise, curiosity emanating from him in near-visible waves. “Did you get me a corsage or something?”

Erik smiles, metal clinking as he moves and the cape swirling around his ankles. “Not quite.”

He summons his keys and wallet while Charles goes to the kitchen, and he’s tucking them into the belt pouch that came with the costume when he hears Charles laugh out loud, coming back in with the box in his hands and looking through the clear plastic at the laurel wreath that had been delivered earlier in the day. “For my head, I assume?” 

Erik takes it from him and lays it flat on the bed, unfastening the lid and taking out the wreath.

The leaves are silvery-green, and when he lowers it onto the crown of Charles’ head they sit beautifully in Charles’ dark, wavy hair, the wire the florist had wound into the wreath allowing Erik to shape it precisely so it it will stay put. He looks like a maenad, like some wild thing Erik has caught and tamed to his wrist. “Perfect,” Erik murmurs, and his sub tilts his head up for a kiss which Erik is happy to give, pinching Charles’ chin between his fingers as his free hand picks up the end of the leash. “You’re not getting away from me tonight,” he says, and fuses the end of the leash to his bonding bracelet, so that they are tied to one another.

“Oh,” Charles says shakily, hungrily, and bites his lip again when Erik pulls on it, dragging his head forward a little. “Um. Shall we go?”

It’s warm out, the air still sweltering with leftover heat from the day, rising from the half-melted city tarmac like a hot cloud. They’re taking Erik’s car - he doesn’t use it much, the subway is easier in the city, but he doesn’t want to wait around for the train in costume, or for a cab when they decide to leave later. Moira has of course offered them Erik’s old room at the apartment, but there’s no way they’re staying overnight. So instead they take Erik’s Lexus out of its long hibernation in the parking garage, and Erik waits patiently while Charles climbs in the driver’s side and over the centre console to get into the passenger seat, lengthening the leash until it’s long enough not to pull on Charles’ throat whenever Erik turns the steering wheel. He’s not about to let him loose this soon, even if it would be more practical.

It doesn’t hurt that Erik gets a flash of Charles’ ass in the tight underwear as he climbs in, of course, nor that Charles catches the image in his mind and blushes, tugging at the hem of the toga where it lies across his thighs.

“Leave it,” Erik says, and Charles’ hand falls away obediently, settles in his lap with the other one in the neutral position, palms up, as they wing their way through the evening city, streetlights flickering on around them as they pass.

There’s an honest-to-god valet outside of Emma and Moira’s building - Emma has rolled out all the stops, it seems - who takes the keys from him and quite rightly does not look at Charles at all while Erik offers him a hand to climb out to the sidewalk, the leash retracting and thickening the closer in Charles gets until it is just right again, about four feet in length. The lacing is rough and layered under his palm when Erik rests his hand on the small of Charles’ back and leads him inside, nodding politely at the other costumed couple following them, who appear to be dressed as the sun and moon. The sun sinks to his knees as soon as they pause by the elevator doors to wait for the car, and then again once it arrives, walking three steps forward and kneeling once more behind the slender moon, who makes polite conversation all the way up to the penthouse, her voice light and cheerful in total contrast to the severe black of her outfit, the silver mask covering the top half of her face the only relief.

 _Should I kneel?_ Charles thinks to Erik, glancing sidelong at the sun, who has his eyes downcast to the floor, an expression of utter serenity peeping out from behind his golden mask.

 _Do you want to?_ Erik thinks back, then shakes his head minutely, the bristles on his helmet swaying with the motion. _It’s hard on the knees, all that up and down. Not worth it._

The elevator doors open again on Emma and Moira’s penthouse suite and the sound of dozens of voices suddenly swells in on them where the soundproofing had been holding them at bay, an immediate flood of noise; even Erik, who has been to many of these before - usually against his will - is surprised by just how loud it is, and he sees the other Domme sway, taken aback despite herself before she can regain her composure.

“Excuse me, I must go and find my sister,” Erik says, and the woman gives him a brisk nod and leads her sub off into the party, determination now in her step after that brief moment of shock. To Charles he says, “Come on, let’s get this party over with.”

The penthouse is full of guests dressed as every creature under the sun, glasses of whatever froufrou thing is in vogue this month in every hand, gathered in clusters of feathers and silks and leather talking to one another about whatever it is rich people talk to each other about. Everything that can be sat upon is filled with people, and the floor is dotted with others standing around, posturing and laughing. Erik weaves them around a pair of elegantly-dressed cats - on second glance the Dom is a lion, not a cat - and barely misses being bumped into by a priest and a devil in deep conversation, though on further examination the devil turns out to be Azazel, who is not wearing a costume at all. His mistake. The Russian gives him a slight jerk of the head in lieu of a formal greeting, glances at Charles at Erik’s side and breaks into a slow grin, ignoring the fake priest in favour of giving Charles a slow once-over. 

Erik bares his teeth in a barely-contained snarl, and Azazel laughs, turning back to his conversation partner with dark eyes twinkling with amusement.

The point won, Erik glances at Charles at his side to see how he’s doing and finds Charles is smiling, looking about at everyone with great interest, never settling on anyone in particular for long; of course, this sort of society party is Charles’ birthright. He’s probably looking for people he knows. If he does see anyone he recognises, though, he doesn’t try to go to say hello, just keeps himself in snug against Erik, never far enough away for the leash to draw tight around his throat. As they move through the party people start turning to look at them, murmurs rising as they’re recognised - one, either, both together. Erik stares them all down, a cool, neutral expression on his face, just the way Emma taught him, and keeps his hand possessively on his submissive’s waist.

They pass the sitting area where one of the city politicians is sat with two naked subs at his feet, one kneeling on all fours with a bowl of fruit on her back and the other with both palms outstretched and the politician’s glass resting atop them, perfectly balanced.

“Twins,” Erik says to Charles as an aside, when his sub seems taken aback, pink tinging his cheeks.

“Oh.” Charles’ voice is a little high, nervous, and Erik realises with no little surprise that maybe Charles isn’t as comfortable as he looks. He lets his hand curl around Charles’ hip, rubs his thumb along the jut of Charles’ hipbone through the fabric. “Did you never come to any of these parties before?”

 _No._ The tenor of Charles’ thoughts is one of moderate embarrassment. _Mother never took me anywhere, then with Raven being younger than me made it difficult for her to come with me - she can only just legally drink this year. And I didn’t want to go on my own, I’ve heard stories about lone subs at this sort of thing._  
 _  
_Erik nods. _Here Emma keeps track of everyone, so it’s safe. But at some snobby parties, yes, it’s better for a sub to stay home unless you have a Dom with you._ Too many socialite Doms are less than observant of the rules of polite society for Erik’s liking, and too many subs get manhandled against their will if they get caught by the wrong drunkard at the wrong kind of party. _It’s okay. This is the civilised version. And I’m here._  
 _  
I know,_ Charles thinks, and smiles up at him. He’s the loveliest thing in this room and Erik is sure they all know it. He catches a pair of Dommes staring at the two of them over Charles’ shoulder and glares back, putting his hand between Charles’ shoulderblades so he can frame the collar with his thumb and forefinger, keeps it there and his eyes on them until they submit and look down and away, giggling softly to themselves.

“Come on,” Erik says gruffly, and continues wading them through the crowd, cutting a path for Charles to follow behind him towards the big panoramic window at the far side of the apartment.

Emma has enthroned herself in front of the spectacular view, on an elaborately carved and gilded loveseat with a back so high it might as well be a throne in truth; she’s talking to a couple dressed as master and servant, the Dom in a tuxedo and the sub in a tiny maid’s uniform with a neckline so low it barely contains her breasts. Erik clanks as he walks, but he can feel it when Emma’s mind touches his, sliding in to take a peek the way she always does, casually ignoring his privacy in a way he is long resigned to. When he thinks a greeting at her his sister’s eyes slip sideways away from the couple in front of her and a sly smile curls onto her face, as carefully controlled as all of her public expressions.

“Erik, there you are,” she says in a tone that implies he is a small child who had gotten lost somehow, rather than an adult turning up fashionably late. The couple she was talking to drift away politely without her even needing to suggest it to them - Erik is never quite certain that she hasn’t _suggested_ it to people silently when things happen that are to her perfect convenience, but knows better than to ask. “You decided to show your face after all.”

“You did make me pinky swear,” Erik says dryly, trying not to be annoyed. “You look… nice, Emma.”

Emma smirks, tossing her long pale hair over her shoulder and giving him a practiced flutter of her lashes. “Nice, Erik? High praise from you.”

“As your brother, I find it hard to know where to look.”

Her ‘costume’ is one long drape of white fur swathing her body, and looks as though it could slip free at any moment, revealing her naked underneath but for the diamonds dangling carelessly from her ears, which gleam in the light, backlit by the city. Emma would never do something so gauche as to wear a necklace and imply she might be submissive, but there are diamonds threaded into her hair, and a telltale glint of translucence to her skin that suggests she might be holding herself on the very edge of transforming into her diamond self, just enough to make her glow. It’s a masterwork of elegant debauchery, the sort of thing Emma excels at. There’s not a Domme in this room who would dare challenge her.

Emma shifts in her chair, leaning forward and propping her chin on her hand, a silken sound of fur on flesh as she moves. Her eyes look him up and down, assessing. “You look very imposing, sugar,” she says after a long moment examining his costume, eyes pausing for a moment on the sword before her smile grows coy and knowing. _Good job,_ she says into his mind, and he can feel Charles overhearing, his sub twitching a little at his side and glancing sidelong at Erik when he picks up on the subtext. _Do remember to mingle, darling. Or there’s no use reminding everyone who you are and who your family is._

She turns her gaze on Charles, and her smile is softer, somehow, without softening enough that anybody else would notice. “And Charles. Do you know, every time I see you I think more seriously about stealing you away and hiding you under my furs where nobody else can have the pleasure? I’m sure we could find something for you to do down there.”

Erik glares, but Charles just laughs and blushes, ducking his head as he says, “I suppose I could paint your toenails for you.”

Emma breaks out in peals of laughter, and half the party turns to see who she is speaking to, eyebrows rising and conversations changing topic rapidly when they recognise Erik, and that he’s not alone. “Oh, poppet, I’m so glad I got you for Erik, it’s like a little present to myself,” she says, raising a finger to delicately wipe away imaginary tears of amusement. “Your toga is darling, but do be careful about bending over. Erik does so like a brawl, but not in the house.”

It’s somehow easier to be fondly exasperated with her when Charles is smiling, and Erik sighs, setting his irritation aside. “Is Moira about?”

“She just went to get me something to drink.” The fur slides free of the entire upper curve of Emma’s breast, and Erik pointedly looks away until she smirks at him and drags the edge of it slowly, deliberately, back up, more brazen than bashful. “Ah, here she comes. Thank you, sweetheart. Teasing Erik is thirsty work,” and she takes her glass from Moira with a languid curl of her arm, looking her submissive up and down as she does so.

Moira, true to their usual form, is dressed only in lingerie, lacy bra and panties with thigh-high stockings and suspenders, a garter belt around her slim belly made of the same black lace, and painted from head to toe in tiger stripes, her already pale skin paled further with white make-up until she looks like a Siberian tigress, a tall, carved ivory posture collar - a Frost family heirloom - stretching from her collarbones to her jaw, keeping her chin high and poised. Glass handed over, she bends gracefully to kneel at Emma’s feet like a captured animal, but there is not much else in her pose that is submissive, her eyes outlined in black kohl as though she needs anything to make them more fiercely defiant when she’s immersed in the game she and Emma seem always to be playing with one another. “Hi, Erik. Hi, Charles. Is Emma giving you a hard time?”

“No more than usual,” Erik says. There are thin red stripes under the black licking around from the backs of Moira’s thighs, but he ignores them with the practice of years of ignoring their sex life. “Were there any further instructions, Emma, or shall Charles and I go and talk to whomever you’ve hired to torture me this time? What agenda am I supposed to be pushing?”

“Hmm, there was one more thing.” There’s a long, confident pause in which nobody else speaks, Emma utterly in control and holding her moment before she blinks, slow and sultry and utterly pleased with herself. “Family photo. Come up here and pose for the camera, sweetheart.”

Oh, hell no. “What?” Erik turns on his heel and finds a photographer setting up behind them, turns back to Emma and gives her his best scowl. “No.”

In a flash Emma’s coy amusement turns cold, her eyes burning into his, and Erik can feel her threatening to make him kneel against his will, the slightest tremor in the backs of his thighs that have nothing to do with him, that tensing his muscles does nothing to prevent. “I want you to stand on my left, hand on the back of the chair, and Charles to sit at your feet,” she continues as though he hasn’t said anything, and when he doesn’t move the wobble in his legs gets stronger, until he thinks _okay, fine,_ gives in to her will and stomps up to her chair to take up the position she shows him in his mind. Charles, of course, follows easily, folding to the floor with every sign of happy compliance.

 _I could stop her, if you wanted,_ Charles thinks into Erik’s mind, quietly, as though he’s whispering so she doesn’t hear him.

 _Good boy,_ Erik thinks back, _but no, not in public,_ and Charles’ rush of pleasure at having pleased him is enough to make Erik smile just a little, just enough for Emma to be satisfied and wave at the photographer to take the picture. _Come on, let’s go find somewhere to sit and let people come to us. It’s what me and Emma do. She’s the Queen and I play her knight, and everyone else here plays the role of the courtiers._  
 _  
Who does that make me?_ Charles asks as Erik gives Emma a formal tilt of his head, baring his throat to her and publicly acknowledging her as his Senior Domme. 

_Guinevere,_ Erik thinks, and tugs on the leash, interrupting Charles’ laughing protest. “Come,” he says, and leads Charles off to the far side of the living room - if a room this large can be called a living room. There’s another set of couches at that end, and Erik claims the empty armchair for himself, sprawling into it and letting himself spread out so that the tunic and leather armour drapes between his legs. The helmet goes on the floor by his feet. Charles goes with it, kneeling when Erik gestures for him to go to the floor and falling easily into abeyant position.

There’s an agenda to these appearances, a purpose to Emma’s forcing him to come that even Erik acknowledges is necessary, even if he does drag his heels. Keeping up the family name and reputation - however Erik feels about their late and unlamented father - requires he show his face and make an impression on people as something other than just an engineer who works for Tony Stark. He owes Emma enough to turn up and look intimidating once in a while.

Charles knows all of this, of course. His family name has kept him in good stead even when the only Domme he had was his teenage sister, but it never hurts to start showing up again. It’s all about dynasty, something that makes Erik roll his eyes even as people start wandering over, smiling and making small talk at him so that Erik has to play at being at court, treating them all with the same disinterested courtesy he always shows them at these kinds of parties. But it matters to Emma, showing off her younger brother and that she can dominate even someone like Erik Lehnsherr, who is famous in society for making other Doms back off without having to say a word. And so it matters to Erik, when he begrudgingly admits that he loves her and would do terrible things for her if necessary.

 _You don’t enjoy it, do you?_ Charles thinks between rounds, once a server has handed them both a drink. _You hate this sort of thing._  
 _  
Why do you think I avoid coming?_ Erik replies with dry amusement, reaching for Charles’ glass and taking it from him so he can offer it to Charles from his own hand instead, tipping the glass to his lips and pouring slowly so Charles can sip at the wine without choking. _It’s all an excuse to show off how powerful and connected you are, and how well you take care of your things. And I don’t care about any of that, because unlike most of these vain peacocks I am secure enough not to need to show off my power and connections. “_ And I always take good care of my things,” he says out loud, wiping his thumb along Charles’ stained lower lip, darkened red from the wine.

There are naked subs, and subs wearing clothes so tight they might as well be naked, and subs wearing everything under the sun from silks to leather to sheer gauze, but then there is Charles, and Erik is lost when the very tip of that pink tongue flicks out to lick at Erik’s thumb, submissive and perfectly _his._

“Nice,” someone else says, and Erik’s eyes snap up to give the man his coldest stare and a curled-lip growl, until the colour runs out of the man’s face and he makes some lame excuse, stepping awkwardly around another couple to make a quick getaway.

 _Erik,_ Charles thinks, and he can tell it’s supposed to be chiding but it sounds breathless instead, Charles’ blue eyes bright as stars.

Oh, to hell with it. He should get to have at least a little fun at these damn parties. “When we get home you’re going to get on the bed on your knees and elbows and hold yourself open for me until I’m ready to mount you from behind like a proper Roman slave,” Erik says in his most Dominant tone, his voice a low rumble. “You’ll show me what I bought, won’t you?”

Charles flushes at the implication, picking up immediately on the game - _Yes,_ he thinks, acknowledging it long enough to move on - and if he’s humiliated at Erik saying it aloud and in public then that can’t hide from Erik the fact that he’s also aroused by it, the front of his toga lifting just a little from his thighs where his tight briefs can’t wholly restrain him. “Yes, _sir_ ,” and Charles bends to kiss Erik’s foot, glancing up at him through his lashes to assess the effect.

“Come up here,” Erik says, and makes Charles sit in his lap for the rest of the evening, deliberately tugging him to sit right over Erik’s erection so that his submissive can feel it pressing against his ass through his clothes while Erik talks to the more interesting people who come up to them, quickly dismissing those he can’t stand for more than five minutes, no matter how powerful they are. The society pages love it when he does that. The servers keep bringing them wine, and Charles’ mouth gets redder and redder, his lids heavy and sexy with it in an innocent way Emma has never quite managed. At one point Charles is carrying on a conversation with a submissive professor from NYU about something or other to do with genetics, leaning into Erik’s chest as he talks, and Erik is so proud to have Charles there, his, that he loses the track of his conversation with Azazel, who merely gives him a knowing look - they’re old friends, thankfully, so Erik doesn’t have to intimidate the man into silence.

“He seems good for you,” Azazel says, and smiles when Erik doesn’t deny it, baring his sharp teeth in a broad grin. “The lion tamed? For shame, Lehnsherr.”

“Go back to Russia before I set alight the vodka that runs through your body instead of blood,” Erik says genially, smiling back, but it’s at least half a grin.

“Why would I go back to Russia when your sister’s tits are on display here?” And Azazel laughs when Erik curses at him and disappears, reappearing across the room with his arm around a woman dressed as an amazon, who shrieks with surprise before bursting into fits of laughter.

In his lap Charles shifts his hips back and forth as though he’s wriggling to get comfortable, but he tilts his head against Erik’s neck as though he’s tired when Erik knows he’s anything but. The slow rub of it across his trapped cock is delicious and torturous, and he bends to bite the lobe of Charles’ ear in punishment, which only makes his sub squirm harder, dragging himself over Erik’s crotch.

“Are you going to behave yourself, or am I going to have to make you?” Erik asks quietly, keeps his voice steady though he wants to groan. He could wrap an arm around Charles and hold him still, but he doesn’t.

Back and forth, back and forth, rolling just a little as the friction builds and Erik hardens in his pants.

“I’m not doing anything.” Charles’ mouth is pressed to his skin, and he can feel him smile even as his lips move to speak. His breath is warm, and he’s panting, just a little. “Your flashlight is really uncomfortable to sit on.”

Erik wraps his hand around Charles’ leash and pulls it tight, tips his head back away from Erik’s neck so his throat is arched, hair falling back away from his face. “That’s not my flashlight,” he whispers back, and Charles laughs.

“I thought maybe you wanted me to use it while I was under the furs painting your toenails,” he gasps, and that’s enough.

“Get up,” Erik says, and Charles is quick to obey, slipping easily from his lap and waiting for Erik to put his helmet back on and straighten his costume, the submissive keeping his head ducked and his hands decorously clasped in front of him as though he’s not a filthy tease. “We’re going home where I can treat this behaviour the way it deserves,” Erik says into his ear, and Charles shivers, eyes trembling closed for a long moment before he opens them again, heated and wanting.

Erik doesn’t bother saying goodbye to his sister. She’ll notice they’ve left sooner or later, and he has a submissive to fuck the sass out of.

When they get downstairs the valet brings the car around very quickly indeed, and Erik goes against his usual habits to tip the kid for his trouble, is almost but not quite too impatient to make Charles climb back into the car ahead of him instead of breaking the leash. The flash he gets of his submissive’s ass makes it worth it, and Erik seriously considers just taking Charles on all fours in the back seat before he decides it would be too much effort for too little immediate gain.

Charles catches the image anyway and sucks in a sharp breath, his head falling back to bare his throat as he shifts restlessly, toes curling. He tugs at the hem of his toga, but it’s riding high over his swelling arousal - it barely covers anything any more, just skirting the point of indecency.

“No wonder the Romans were always fucking their slaves if they were all as shameless as you are tonight,” Erik says, as coldly as he can - because Charles loves it when he’s disdainful - crackling heat under every movement he makes as he puts the car into gear and roars away from the curb.

“I’m sorry. I’ll behave,” Charles says as they turn towards home, “I’ll be so, so good - ”

Erik smiles, can’t help it, and Charles bends down in his seat so he can lay his head on the cushioned armrest between them by Erik’s hip.

The drive feels like it takes an age, every light red, every half-blind grandmother in a car too wide to overtake slowing down right as Erik comes up behind them, clogging the road. He tries not to look at Charles as he drives, but every now and then he catches Charles’ reflection in the window, curled up on his side beside Erik, mussed and loose-limbed, their images turned back in on them in the light on the glass, and it’s almost impossible not to think about sex.

“So how did they fuck their slaves in Ancient Rome?” Charles asks conversationally just as they’re turning onto their street, and Erik only turns successfully into the parking garage under their building through sheer determination not to crash and a judicious application of his power, sliding the car into their allotted space with a certain amount of relief.

“Brutally,” Erik says once he’s stopped the engine, and nearly drags Charles out of the car and over to the elevators.

The trip up to the apartment is even worse. Charles kneels behind him the way the sun had behind the Domme dressed as the moon, and presses his forehead to the back of Erik’s knees, demure and utterly perfect.

It’s only self-defence for Erik to stride ahead down the corridor to their front door, leaving Charles to scramble to keep up, and when he closes the door behind them Charles falls immediately to his knees and starts kissing Erik’s feet again, rubbing his face against Erik’s ankles and the cold metal greaves around his calves, clasping his hands behind his back and looking up at him with imploring eyes. His voice is quiet and wavery, studiedly afraid as he says, “Forgive me, master, if I’ve displeased you. I’m sorry.”

Erik stays still, waits until Charles starts to look genuinely nervous, wondering if his little bit of roleplay is unwanted, and then he pulls hard on the leash, dragging Charles into a hard and beautiful arch that makes his sub whimper and moan, his back one long curve of obedience. “You’ve shamed me in public with your lewd behaviour, Charles,” he says, looking him up and down and making sure to project approval along with the harsh words, so Charles knows he’s playing along. “What do you think I should do with a naughty boy like you?”

 _Fuck my face,_ Charles thinks so loudly the neighbours must have heard it, and blushes scarlet. “I’m sorry,” is what he says aloud, and Erik reaches down with his free hand - the one not holding the leash - to stroke his fingers across Charles’ red hot cheeks, tracing the colour down to his wine-stained mouth and pressing his thumb inside with a wet pop. Charles moans.

“I think I should teach you your place,” Erik says, and uses his thumb like a fish hook to pull Charles to his feet, pressing against the inside of that smooth-shaven cheek so that the shape of it shows through; with his other hand he snaps the leash free from Charles’ collar, smoothing out the metal where they had joined until it is one smooth piece again, and tosses it away, not caring where it lands. “Come here,” and with his thumb in Charles’ mouth he drags his sub over to the floor in front of their one armchair, pushing him down in front of it prostrate on his belly, before stepping over him to sit in the armchair just the same way he had at the party, legs spread and tunic dangling between them, resting his chin in his hand and his elbow on the arm of the chair. “Get on your knees.”

Charles pushes himself up and sits there obediently while Erik just looks at him, slowly running his eyes up and down Charles’ trembling body. His toga is all rumpled, the laurel wreath on his head skewed and drunken, tilted at an angle on the crown of his head and tangled in his hair. He looks like he’s already been handed around as a party favour, his mouth red from the wine but looking as though it’s swollen from sucking cock. “You’re mine,” Erik says, watches Charles shudder with pleasure at the simple possessiveness rumbling under Erik’s words. “You’re mine, and the only cock you’re going to suck is mine, and you’re going to come here and push up my tunic and put my cock in your mouth and suck me until I tell you to stop.”

There is heat roiling between them now, magnifying with the game until Charles’ hands tremble as he reaches for Erik’s tunic.

The leather and linen scrapes over his skin as Charles’ fingers clutch the hem and fold it up out of the way, and Erik lifts his hips to let Charles drag his boxers down and off, toss them aside out of the area they’re playing in; the leather straps of the underarmour fall to either side of Erik’s erection, and Charles leaves them there as he bends forward and closes his lips around the head of Erik’s cock. 

Erik moans aloud, and Charles is salivating, gasping around him; the leather rubs roughly against his balls as the mouth around him tightens, starts to suck, Charles running his tongue along the underside of Erik’s cock and only moaning louder when Erik groans and grabs his hair, pulling on it to direct his movements. It feels so good, and his submissive pulls back enough to just suck on the head for a moment before sliding down again, far enough to choke just a little, tears springing to his eyes.

God, Charles is good at this. Erik’s hips start jerking of their own accord, in and out of the tight ring of Charles’ lips, and soon enough all Charles is doing is providing a warm wet hole for Erik to fuck in and out of, keeping his throat relaxed and whimpering whenever Erik shoves in deep, eyes fixed on Erik’s; he doesn’t warn Charles before he comes, just shouts and thrusts through it, spurting into Charles’ mouth until his semen is leaking from the corners of Charles’ lips, spilling over and dribbling towards his chin. Charles chokes again, and swallows, swallows again hard around Erik’s cock until he has to pull out, the last of it spattering Charles’ face and making him gasp and moan, leaning forward against Erik and panting for air.

“You - ” Erik manages, and bends down to kiss Charles, tastes his own come in his sub’s mouth and runs his fingers through the thick trails of it on his face to feed it to Charles, who sucks it off his finger as though he hasn’t yet had his fill of sucking things for the night. “That was acceptable, for a slave,” Erik says when he can talk again - it was more than acceptable, and they both know it - and Charles sighs, bends into the hand in his hair and lets Erik kiss him again, passive and obedient despite the cock still straining between his thighs, filling out the front of his toga. “Take off my sandals and greaves,” he orders quietly, and Charles complies, unbuckling everything with competent fingers, leaning his forehead against Erik’s leg and sliding them off, one after the other, in a kind of far-off bliss. 

Erik strokes his hair, his face, and instead of lifting his hands away from Charles he uses his powers to set aside his helmet, curling a finger around the sensitive shell of Charles’ ear, stroking the hot and sweaty line of his neck with the back of his thumb. 

He never ceases to be amazed at what Charles will let Erik do to him. “Now go fetch a bowl and a cloth so you can wash my feet.”

And Charles does, climbs up onto his shaky legs and pads away to the bathroom to fetch it, bringing back a dripping washcloth that he kneels once more to use, soft and tender at his task. He attends to Erik’s feet slowly, carefully, glancing up every so often to check Erik’s expression as he runs the cloth along the arch of his foot, the shallow curve under his toes. The water is cool and feels good on his skin, and slowly Erik starts getting hard again, watching Charles so obedient at his feet, wiping the dust from his soles each in turn, propping Erik’s heels on his thigh to keep them from the floor.

“You’re such a good boy,” Erik says when Charles is done, leaning forward to kiss him once more, lacing his fingers into Charles’ hair and keeping him there when Charles goes limp and pliant, taking the cloth from his hand and laying it aside. “Now take off your briefs, lie down on your back and spread your legs.”

It takes Charles a moment to comply, but he gets back to his feet and reaches up under his toga, the skirts of it riding up in loose folds over his arms as he works off the tight underwear, hooking his fingers under the waistband and slipping them down and off. The flashes of his cock and ass under the toga are mesmerising, and Erik watches greedily as Charles folds to the floor, lays down and waits for further instruction. The line of Charles’ body on the carpet is beautiful, the white linen rucking up around his waist when his thighs splay open and displaying his red and weeping erection, then, beneath that, his tight little hole, clenching and unclenching vulnerably in the open air. 

Erik slides down from his chair onto the floor above his submissive, and there’s nothing to stop him from reaching for Charles and forcing his legs wider with hands pressing down his thighs until Charles cries out, spread wide and helpless underneath him. The thought of getting up to fetch lube is unthinkable when Charles is squirming like that, so Erik reaches out with his mind to find the bottle where it sits on the bedside table, metal-banded for convenience, and calls it to him, carefully negotiating it around the door frame to keep from smashing it into the wall. 

When he presses the first wet finger into Charles he shakes and shudders and cries out, his hole clenching tight around him as Erik pushes deeper, whimpers at the pain of being opened up and rocks his hips up for more, begging wordlessly. He’s never really loosened far from how he was when Erik first had him, still takes some work to finger loose. A second finger slides in easier beside the first where his ass has started to relax, and Erik fingers him until Charles is crying out on every push, strokes his prostate with the tips of his fingers mercilessly - brutally - back and forth across it to make his submissive shudder and jerk uncontrollably, all of his nerves firing at once whenever Erik moves his hand.

“Please.” Charles is sobbing, his cock swollen and dripping with pre-come, but he keeps his legs wide where Erik has put them, though it leaves him without any leverage at all. “Please, Erik, please fuck me - ”

Erik pulls his fingers out of Charles’ loose hole and puts them back on his straining thighs, pressing down until Charles’ hips tilt up, presenting his anus to him, asscheeks spread wide around that lube-slick pucker, put on display. Then he shifts forward, leans over Charles’ splayed-out body, weighing him down, and pushes forward. There’s a moment where that little ring of muscle tries to clench down and keep him out, but then the head of his cock is sliding into Charles, slipping in on the slick where his fingers have loosened him up, and Charles cries out, ass squeezing down tight around Erik as he fucks his way in in a series of hard shoves, working his cock into him where he’s tight and smooth inside.

Charles is trapped underneath him, squirming as though he wants to get away but he can’t move, pinned on Erik’s cock; then he moans and pulls Erik in closer with all four limbs, wrapping his whole body around Erik as he fucks him hard and fast, thrusting in and out of his ass while Charles’ laurel wreath slips further and further askew, caught in his dark hair and jouncing with each thrust as they slide against each other. “Jerk yourself off,” Erik hisses into Charles’ ear, and after a moment he can feel Charles’ knuckles against his belly as he does what he’s told, moaning louder and rolling into it, thighs tight around Erik’s waist.

Erik can feel his second orgasm coming, and Charles is getting tighter the way he usually does when he’s going to come, head tipping back and eyes slamming shut against the pleasure-pain of it, so he bends his head and bites down hard on Charles’ neck where it’s arched and exposed, and that’s it - Charles’ cock jerks and spurts between them, his ass clenching down tight around Erik and forcing his orgasm out of him with a rough shout as he comes deep inside his ass, fills him up with it, fucks him through it until Charles whimpers, oversensitive, and finally Erik pulls out, slipping free with a wince.

Charles looks like a debauched angel, sweating and come-spattered, toga up around his hips and cock half-hard and softening between his legs, laid against his flat belly, then below, his dripping hole, come trickling out the way it had from his mouth earlier. He looks up at Erik with lazy, sated eyes, half-lidded and adoring in a way that makes Erik’s stomach flip.

“I won’t sell you today then,” he says, stroking Charles’ face as his submissive pants and twitches with the aftershocks, and Charles smiles, eyes sliding closed as Erik goes for the washcloth.


End file.
